Average in LA

Something about this photo makes me want to price out 80s...

Wed, 30 Jan 2013 04:09:19 -0500

Something about this photo makes me want to price out 80s Winnebagoes on Craigslist.
Photography by Jeremy & Claire Weiss
day19.com

The Best Time I Ever Dyed My Hair Drunk

Thu, 24 Jan 2013 15:09:00 -0500

For me, the sign of how bad a breakup was isn’t how many sleepless nights I spend re-watching Say Anything wishing that my Lloyd Dobler would come blast Peter Gabriel outside my window or how many bottles of Jack I go through. The true sign of heartbreak for me has always been how much I change my hair afterward.

It started when I was 17 and first boyfriend dumped me for a woman with a bull cut. With the help of my sister-in-law, I added my first set of highlights using her leftover Iced Champagne L’Oreal hair dye in the sink of our upstairs bathroom. My plan was to look so good that he would instantly regret leaving me for a woman with a botched Dorothy Hamill haircut and beg for my forgiveness. Although it didn’t work that time, it was the same motivation I used later that year when I dyed my hair back dark brown after skater Mike dumped me for the German foreign exchange student, Xena. And then blonde again when short Matt said I was too big for him (“Tall, I mean tall”) before going auburn when stoner Josh realized that I “just couldn’t really hang, you know?” (I didn’t, and I still don’t).

In college, one of my professors who taught gender identity explained that cutting one’s hair is an ancient tradition and a symbol of rebirth. In fact, she said that after breakups, women commonly cut or color their hair to give themselves a new identity. I liked that reasoning, and it stuck with me. I wasn’t being vain or pathetic. I was carrying on an ancient female tradition. I was giving myself a rebirth!

Ten years, and every shade of natural (and some unnatural) hair color later, I’m still employing the same reasoning, and it hasn’t worked yet. It has, however, resulted in some pretty bad dye jobs.

There was Alex, who I can succinctly sum up by saying he was an asshole and he liked blondes. So much, in fact that he hooked up with several. While we were together. I wasn’t blonde at the time, but after I found out about it, I decided that I would dye my hair just for spite. There was no rebirth to this. No self-motivations. Just a pure fuck you in a box of Heavenly Honey Highlights. Afterward, my hair felt like straw, but I could live with that just as long as it was beautiful golden blonde straw. It was not. It was orange.

Then there was hipster Drew, who warranted three boxes of dye and a visit to a salon. The first box was to turn my by then poor mousy brown hair “espresso.” The second was to highlight it because I didn’t realize espresso meant almost black. And the third was to cover up the highlights because they were a little green. Literally. Three boxes and five washes later, it looked so bad that I had to give up and go to a professional. During the consultation, Lenora grabbed my hands and looked into my eyes with such urgency that I was a little frightened.

“I’ll help you, and I can correct this, this mess, but you have to promise me that you’re going to stop dying your hair,” she stressed, adding menacingly, “One day, its all going to fall out if you don’t.”

That was not a problem. She had promised to give me beautiful light brown hair with pale highlights, and I was done with dating, so there was really no reason that I would be giving myself any more dramatic dye jobs again. I actually made it a year this time.

That is until the earth shattering, whiskey binge inducing, I cant live without him, five boxes of hair dye breakup.

It wasn’t that he loved Blondes that inspired me, it was that he no longer loved me. And, if he no longer loved me, I wanted to change who I was. My original goal was to find and marry a German supermodel named Hans and post pictures of us and our perfect towheaded baby onto his Facebook page. But this plan proved a little flimsy as male models don’t seem particularly drawn to my average looks and possession of a vagina. So, I decided to settle for dying my hair once again.

Although I bought the dye the same day I made the decision, it sat in my bathroom cabinet for a month before I could talk myself into it. For once, it actually seemed like a bad idea, so whenever I came close to dying it, I would just reach for my bottle of Jack. I figured that if I was drunk I couldn’t dye. But then one night, after watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind for the fourth time in a week (note: do not do this unless you hate yourself, and even then, just. don’t. do. this.) I thought about the rebirth aspect of it. The cleansing. That was exactly what I needed. A cleansing. I went out and bought two six packs of Black Butte Porter and turned my phone off. This was something I had to go through alone.

After three beers I was feeling confident enough to start. I mixed up the bleach and decided to just put a few small streaks around my face. My hands were a little shaky though from the alcohol, so I decided to have another beer to calm myself down. The first few strands went pretty well, but as I worked my way to the back of my head, I began to feel a little drunker and was wishing I had called one of my friends for assistance. Plus, my arms were getting soar and I wanted to stop right there. So I had another beer to wake myself up. This didn’t do much for my hand-eye coordination though, and I noticed that some of the streaks were a little wider than I had planned on. “Oh, well, I’ll just be that much blonder,” I thought.

I decided to celebrate with another beer. “Butter oft whitout ‘im,” I slurred to the mirror as I toasted my soon to be gorgeous hair. I had 30 minutes to kill, and I decided the best way to spend this time would be to listen to songs that reminded me of him. This would unfortunately be the better half of my music library. It would be part of the rebirth I decided, I’d take all of my favorite songs back.

First up, Joni Mitchell’s A Case of You, “Jus bafore ouuur luv got lust,” I sang at the top of my lungs. It was about 1 a.m. by now on a Monday night and my window was open. This would be enough to make my neighbors hate me, but I can’t sing, drunk or sober. And by then, I was just kind of wailing the words. My cat Oliver ran into the bedroom terrified. I worked my way to the second verse and decide to check my hair. “Looking good,” I thought to myself as I opened another beer. Time for some Doors. “Hallo I lurve you yeah yeah tell me yur naaaaame!” I screeched my way through some Pearl Jam before my neighbors began knocking on our shared wall. “Furk You,” I mumbled but I quiet down. I haven’t even gotten to The Beatles yet. I was saving the best for last.

When it was finally time to rinse, I grabbed another beer on my way to the shower and started washing the bleach out of my hair. All of the chemicals sudsing up the water made the tub a little slippery, and I almost fell over, but I managed not to drop my beer. I was incredibly proud of this accomplishment, and I couldn’t help but feel full of confidence as I stepped out of the shower. “I’m going to look beautiful, and I can wash my hair and drink at the same time, “I thought. He’s never going to find someone like me again.

I pulled the towel off my head, but I didn’t check my reflection yet. I’d learned that much at least. Dry it first. It will look so much better. And it did. To my surprise, when I looked at it dried in the mirror, it was beautiful. Soft, natural looking angel blonde streaks all over my head. I was so pleased I passed out face down on the edge of my bead with the lights on.

When I woke the next afternoon, I rushed to the mirror to check my hair. Only, it didn’t look like I’d remembered it. The highlights were uneven. And chunky. One in particular was about three times wider than the rest. Some of the color didn’t extend all of the way to the tip of my hair. Others streaks started three inches from my scalp. And the color wasn’t consistent. It varied from tangerine to lemon, but could never be mistaken by anyone without cataracts as being blonde. Oh fuck. What had I done?

I pulled on a baseball cap and ran to the drugstore. I don’t know if it was the hat or the obvious panic but when I go up to the counter with two boxes of L’Oreal Natural Match, the salesgirl looked at me with pity. “Bad dye job?” she asked.

“Um, yeah,” I hesitated. “It’s pretty bad.”

“What color is it now?”

“Bright yellow.”

“How bright?”

I lifted up the hat on one side and she winced. “Oh.” She looked at my two boxes and back at my head.

“I figured that one had to work,” I explained.

“No,” she said pointing to my last hope, Clairol’s Lightest Ash Brown, “This ones going to turn you green. “You need something a little warmer.”

She walked out from behind the counter and tried to lead me back to aisle two so she could show me something that would “warm up that pasty skin,” as stylists had been trying to do in vain for years.

“No,” I said louder than I had meant to. I had already made my decision and I couldn’t give up on my blonde dreams completely. “I mean, Ill just try these for now, but thanks for uh, helping me.”

“Humph,” she grunted obviously offended that I wasn’t going to take her advice. She rang me up and shook her head. “Well, good luck, but you’ll probably be back.”

I went home and dyed my hair, sober this time. I couldn’t take any more chances. Truth be told, after I used the first box, my hair did look a tinge green in fluorescent lighting, and a few people at work asked “What color is that?” but once I topped that with my backup plan of Tone Refiner in Highlighted Blonde, it sort of worked. My hair was a bit destroyed by then, and I was in dire need of a haircut. So I bought a box, (you read that right) of white zinfandel and decided to give myself a little trim. I mean, I wasn’t going to meet any German supermodels with all those split ends.

A Little Advice

Sun, 18 Nov 2012 19:14:00 -0500

I didn’t want to go out that night. It was the first Saturday night in the history of my semi-adult life that I think I’ve ever tried to turn down a party. It was going to be a long drive. The people were my ex-coworkers whom I hadn’t liked when I was paid to be around them, and I had a fresh bottle of cheap white wine chilling in my fridge. I gave my friend Alexis, the only other bartender I’d kept in touch with, my string of excuses, but she persisted.

“Please, you don’t have to stay long. Just come. I have someone who’s dying to meet you.”

“No.”

“He’s really nice, and cute and tall.”

“No.”

“Come on!” For some reason, Alexis is insistent on trying to set me up with every man she knows. I’m equally insistent that every man she knows is a creep.

“I’ll come, but no men,” I eventually compromised.

When I finally showed up, Alexis still wasn’t there, and I realized I didn’t know most of the people. I got a drink from the bar and stood in the corner trying to avoid eye contact and praying she’d come soon.

“So, how have you been?” I turned to see my ex-coworker Rena standing next to me.

“Good, really good.” I nodded and offered a tense smile. I never know what to say when people ask me this. I can’t tell the truth. How would they react to ‘Well, I’ve actually been severely depressed lately. I just bought a plane ticket to go home for the first time in three years and I’m dreading it. I hate my job. I live in a shitty neighborhood. I’m incapable of any sort of functional relationship, apparently including friendship. Oh, and my bangs are obviously crooked. What’s up with you?’

“How’s work?”

“Good,” I lied. “You?”

She just ignored me and jumps into her next question. “Still live in Hollywood?”

“Yup.”

“Still seeing that guy, what was his name?”

“James. No, we actually haven’t been dating for quite a while now. Are you still with Derek?”

“Yes. So things didn’t work out with you two, huh?” and with this she latches on.

“Nope.”

“I’m not surprised. He didn’t really seem into you.” I visibly cringe, but she continues. “Was it because of your jealousy?” I scan my brain trying to think if Rena has ever met James. She hasn’t. In fact, all she knows about him is that the last time I saw her was at a painful girls’ night out Alexis had organized where I’d drunkenly confessed to getting jealous because a girl, who claimed to be a model in her Facebook profile had left him a comment encouraging him to expand his spiritual horizons. I had sworn it was a euphemism for seducing him. “She wants to expand something else!” I’d drunkenly slurred.

“Maybe.”

“Do you still talk to him?”

“Yeah, of course. We’re really good friends.”

“Oh, but you’re not over him. I can tell by your face.” I wondered what I ever did to deserve this interrogation. She’s like my mother reincarnated with blonde hair and a size two frame.

“I am.” I lied defiantly.

“Well, have you dated anyone since?”

“I went out on a date.” Technically it was true. I went out for coffee with a guy under the guise of friendship and he asked me to tell him all of my faults within the first 10 minutes because “people should be upfront on first dates.” I just gave him my top five, thinking no one really has time to hear them all and then asked what his were. With a disgusted face he said, “I’m too passionate about life.” I never saw him again.

“And…” she prodded.

“He asked me if I thought my boobs would still be big if I lost some weight.” I laughed, remembering how I’d just stammered. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. I mean, the women on my Dad’s side of the family are all really busty.’

“Shanna, Shanna, Shanna,” she shook her head. “Let me give you a little advice. I cringed. People have been giving me “a little advice” for as long as I can remember. From “Losing ten pounds would make such a difference on you!” to “If you smiled less, it might mean more,” I’ve come to dread anyone’s advice. But out of politeness, I just waited silently for her to continue.

“Forget the golden rule.” She paused to make sure I was taking her in fully before continuing with her words of wisdom. “People don’t treat you the way they want to be treated, they treat you the way you let them. He said that to you because you let him.” I nodded and sipped my whiskey sour, pushing the straw between my front teeth and sucking the bittersweet nectar in. I should have asked for a double.

“You do not deserve to be treated like that,” she said encouragingly. “You know how some women are just so beautiful people can’t take their eyes off of them? They walk through a room and everyone watches?”

“Uh, yeah.” I just nod. I have no idea what’s coming.

“Well, you’re not that woman.” I nod again in reply and pull a tight smile. I don’t need anyone to tell me I’m not that woman. I’ve known I wasn’t that woman and would never be since I was 12. “The thing about you Shanna,” she continued unaware that I was clenching my jaw, “is that you’re cute. You’re not beautiful, but you’re cute, and that’s a good start. Plus you’re a nice person, and you’re pretty funny, so it doesn’t matter that you’re not gorgeous. Looks fade, but you’ll always be a good person.” A good person who’s about to break your nose, I thought to myself.

“What are you guys talking about?” Aaron, another one of my old co-workers whom I’ve never actually spoken to, approached us.

“Oh, nothing,” I covered before Rena could blab about my lacking appearance.

“Just Shanna’s men problems,” she smiled.

“Your boyfriend?” he asked me.

“She wishes,” Rena answered with a giggle. I pulled another tight smile and looked around frantically for Alexis.

“Not really a problem. Just my friend and…” I just trailed off. I don’t have to tell this guy about him.

“You like him?” he asked softly and with understanding. I nodded. “You ever tell him how you feel?” I felt the heat rising to my face in memory. I nodded again.

“But he doesn’t want to be with you,” he nodded back in acknowledgement. “Not attracted to you?”

“Sure,” I agreed. And about a thousand other reasons.

He looked me up and down pointedly. “Yeah, I can see that,” he finally said. I made a Charlie Brown smile — no lips because I’m biting both of them, showing only an upturned line.

“So, how about you?” I asked, happy to finally turn the conversation away from me. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Just broke up,” he smiled broadly. “The woman was too jealous for her own good. It’s the worst thing a woman can do. Be holding on to her man too tightly like that.”

“Shanna’s very jealous.” Rena volunteered. That’s why she’s single.”

I should have said, ‘I’m single because I don’t want to date some moron who’s working up to be an assistant manager at Target, and by the way did Derek ever get promoted?’ but I just spat out “I’m getting better about it.”

“You’d better,” he advised, studying my face again. “Some women, they can get away with that shit. If they’re gorgeous, you put up with it because you know you’re not gonna get anyone better. But you,” he motioned toward me with his bottle of Bud Light. “You’re not hot enough to be pulling that on some guy.”

I couldn’t make eye contact. If I did, I would physically harm him. I fantasized about a double round house kick to both their faces or just tearing out his jugular with my bare teeth and breaking her nose with a jab. My sick fantasy brought a slight smile to my face. “I’m sorry, but it’s true.” He said thinking I was reacting to his comments.

“Sure, sure.” I nodded. Still no sign of Alexis. Why do I do this? Why do I just stand there and let people insult me. I think about all of the dates I should have walked out on. I think about all of the unsolicited advice I’ve been given over the years, the many suggestions of how I could better myself. Then I think about Rena’s advice.

“You know what,” I put my coat on. “I gotta go.”

“But you just got here?” Rena said.

“Yeah, but this isn’t how I want to be treated.”

They looked at me and then at each other blankly as I walked out the door with my head held high. I felt good. I felt confident for standing up for myself. I was feeling so good that I obliviously walked straight into a tall man coming through the door. If this was a rom com, I would have looked up into his kind, deep set brown eyes, and he would have apologized for bumping into me and offered to buy me a whiskey and some jojo potatoes (it’s my fantasy). Then, meet-cute style he would have turned out to be Alexis’s set up. But since this is not a rom com, I looked up past the fat neck into the pocked face hiding under a Raiders cap, and he just snapped at me, “Watch it bitch!”

Maybe I'll Get Fat

Mon, 12 Nov 2012 17:54:00 -0500

My mom is constantly convinced that I’m going to become fat. Not a little chubby, but wheelchair-bound morbidly obese. When I was 13 and really was fat, she would tell me that I was beautiful and she didn’t know why the other kids teased me all of the time, but as soon as I was no longer wearing plus sizes she became convinced that I was overweight.

She used to offer me constructive criticism such as “You have such a nice figure underneath the fat,” and “You have such a pretty face, if you could just lose a few pounds you’d be a knockout!”

It’s not that my mom is even skinny. She’s always had a problem with her weight, and for as long as I can remember she’s talked about how she was bulimic for years. Saying “I may be fat now, but when I was bulimic I was so thin that I always had some man after me,” probably wasn’t the best way to present it to an impressionable eight-year-old, but fortunately it never appealed to me. Maybe I just lacked commitment.

She doesn’t mean any harm, she just doesn’t want me to suffer the fate that has plagued so many of our immediate family members who are overweight, which according to her includes being unhealthy, poor, unloved and miserable for the rest of your life.

During college, I lost 10 pounds between family visits and the next time I went home to see her, I proudly wore a snug sweater and tight jeans to show off how much better I looked. When I walked through the door, before hugging or greeting me, she looked me up and down and said “Looks like you’ve gained some weight, what have you been eating?” I was absolutely crushed and accepted every scoop of vanilla bean ice cream and piece of blackberry cobbler she proceeded to offer me.

Things continued this way throughout the next 10 years with her accusing me of gaining weight every time she saw me and then asking why I didn’t want her to buy me a milkshake with my McDonalds combo. But since she refuses to visit Los Angeles, and I revel in disregarding my vacation time, I haven’t seen her in a year. I talk to her weekly, but I haven’t sent her any pictures for 12 months. This drives her crazy, which in turn delights me. She constantly asks for updates on my weight and every time something goes wrong in my life she asks me if I’ve gained weight. Whether I’ve lost a job or broken up with a boyfriend, she’s convinced that anything negative in my life must stem from my weight.

Much to her horror, I am newly single from someone she adored, and once again her first question was “How much weight did you gain to make him lose interest?” I tried to explain that it wasn’t the case, but she was insistent until I hung up the phone in tears. I immediately called the only other person who I knew would understand. My brother. After several minutes of understanding joint frustration we came up with an official statement to tell my mom. I mean, sometimes you just have to give people what they want.

“Look, Mom, I didn’t want you to have to find out this way, but yes, I’ve gained some weight. And yes, he broke up with me because of it. I also didn’t want you to know, but I was fired from my job because I missed two weeks straight of work. It’s not because I was sick. I’d just gotten so big that I couldn’t even fit out my door to get to work. When I finally ran out of food I lost enough weight from not eating to be able to fit through the doorway again and was able to go to the store for some more mini pizzas. Last week I finally got a job at WalMart testing out their disabled scooters but they fired me for running down small children with them. Do you think you could spot me some money for food?”

I thought I hated musicals, (the peppiness, spontaneous dancing,...

Thu, 08 Nov 2012 16:40:00 -0500

I thought I hated musicals, (the peppiness, spontaneous dancing, starry-eyed lovers), then I listened to “I Dreamed a Dream.” While at work. At 4am. On a project that was due at 9. Turns out, I don’t hate musicals. I just hate happiness.

My name is Shanna, and I'm a Jealous-ohlic

Tue, 06 Nov 2012 13:27:48 -0500

My name is Shanna and I’m a jealous-oholic. If the first step is the hardest, then it should all be down hill from here. I admit that I’ve suffered from it all my life but I’m just now coming to terms with how deeply it’s affected myself and those around me. My mom claims that she hated taking me grocery shopping because even as a baby in the cart, if she paid any attention to another baby at the store, I’d scream and wail while reaching out and trying to hit the competition with my tiny fists. Not a lot has changed since then.

Before I started preschool, my mom would take me with her on her various housecleaning jobs, and I distinctly remember being enraged when she worked for the Evans’s. They had a six-month-old baby that she constantly cooed over and announced to be the cutest thing on earth. I hated it with a passion and did everything I could think of to regain my rightful attention the shriveled little beast was taking away. I tried crawling into my Mom’s lap while she was holding it, attempted to get into its crib and even announced that “I’m the baby! Hold me!” Somehow my mom didn’t see it as a cry for help so much as an annoyance and told me “You’re a big girl now, you need to act like one.”

I was also jealous of my dad, but slightly less so as he didn’t really give his attention to anyone, so much as receive it. He has a red beard halfway down to his stomach and shaggy red hair, which draws a lot of comments. When we would go anywhere with large groups of people, such as the county fair, people would stop him yelling “ZZ Top!” “Oh My God!” Some even taking pictures. I hated them too. My dad had to be coaxed into taking our one and only family portrait at Sears because we had a free coupon for it, and in it, he’s not even smiling. But when the white trash floozies came running, he would grin and pose for the camera. Even now when I’m walking through a liquor store and I hear “Give Me All Your Lovin’” my blood boils.

As I got older, my parents’ attention mattered less and less to me. I had no where to channel my restless insecurities until I started dating. After 10 years of having no one’s attention to use as reassurance that I was lovable, I quickly made up for lost time. To test how much a guy really cared about me, I would pick fights over what I considered waitresses’ excess attention, pictures of ex-girlfriends or even the slightest hint of a wandering eye.

I would ask boyfriends loyalty gauging questions such as “Would you still want to be with me if I gained 100 pounds? What if I was in a car wreck and lost all of my limbs? Went crazy and had to live in a mental ward?” until they would stupidly say no to one of them, and I’d be furious. “You don’t care about me at all!” I’d snap, and we’d go round and round in circles until I’d either finally tell them that I couldn’t be with someone who wouldn’t love me no matter what I looked like, or they’d tell me that they couldn’t be with someone who was crazy, which proved my third test question and gave me a sick sense of self-justification.

I thought I might be getting my jealousy under control, or at least I had good intentions to when I met James. I was wrong. During the time we dated, I convinced myself that he was constantly seeing other girls and just not admitting it because he felt sorry for me. I couldn’t even take his word for his faithfulness. The only comfort I could find was that we spent so much time together, I wasn’t sure when he’d be able to squeeze in other girls. My jealousy and insecurity was a large part of our relationship demise, and when we broke up I felt a sense of peace. At last I wouldn’t’ have to drive myself crazy all of the time that he was going to leave me for someone thinner, prettier and smarter who could pronounce “Perrier” correctly. I could finally relax and just enjoy being around him for once. Again, I was wrong. I became even more jealous. Now I was convinced that I was going to lose him as a friend every time he watched some modelesque blonde walk by. And I live in LA, where there may be a seasonal shortage of water, but there’s an endless supply of modelesque blondes.

I finally realized last week just how extensive my problem is. We went to the deli counter at Whole Foods, and although we arrived together, the young counter girl openly flirted with him, while constantly glancing at me.

“You know what’s really good is our tofu spread.” She told him. “You should try some.”

“Oh, no thanks,” he said with a huge grin, which I tried to decipher as just plain friendliness or interest.

“But tastes soooo good! Here, you have to try it! It’s down here at the other end of the counter.” She glanced at me again before leading him away. Unfortunate about that nose, I thought to myself evilly. As I waited for another person to make my food, I watched them at the end of the glass case. I couldn’t help but notice that she was taking an awfully long time to give him just one sample. And that her Clairol ink black dye job was doing nothing for her foundation caked face. When he walked back over to me I said “Boy, she wanted you,” but managed to hold myself back from commenting on what the contained deli air had done to her skin.

“She’s just friendly,” he said obliviously. We took our sandwiches and sat down in one of the booths. I was still steaming and I knew I shouldn’t be. Calm down, I told myself. Calm down and be nice. He’s your friend. You love him and you want the best for him. You love him too much to wish dating you upon him. It didn’t help. I was so upset I couldn’t even look him in the eye. This is not normal, I thought to myself. Normal people don’t get this way. Stop it!

“Are you okay,” he leaned toward me and tried to catch my gaze.

I could feel words bubbling up inside me ready to be vomited out, but I tried to gulp them down. Don’t say it looks like her giant nose sniffed you out. Don’t say it Shanna! Don’t say it! I grabbed my sandwich and took a huge bite instead. “Mmmmmhmmm.” I nodded while munching away.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Don’t say anything about the nose! Don’t say it! I shoved half of the sandwich into my mouth and choked on it. “Uhm Erm Fime.” I managed as pieces of bread fell out of my mouth.

“Okay,” he allowed, clearly not believing me. You have a problem, I told myself. You need to get help. I replayed the situation over and over in my mind for the next two days, but I promised myself I would get over it. I made it 52 hours before I exploded on him. We were hanging out at his house and I’d just seen a picture of a girl he’d gone on a few dates with before he’d ever met me. “You know you really have horrible taste in women,” I blurted out.

“No I don’t,” he just laughed me off in his good natured way.

“Well, maybe you have good taste, but you have poor execution,” I pushed. He just raised an eyebrow and looked at me pointedly. “Oh I know!” I said. “I’m your longest relationship. And look at me. Poor execution my friend. Terrible.” Some small mentally stable part of my brain screamed out Stop it! Stop! Don’t say it! but I didn’t listen. “Just like that girl at the deli the other day.”

“What girl?” he asked.

“The one who was hitting on you.” Don’t say it! Don’t say it! Don’t say it! And then I did. “Looks like her giant nose sniffed you out!” I knew I’d crossed the line. I began backtracking, apologizing, offering up half-hearted excuses. But the damage was done. I’d started an argument or a discussion as he would call it. As usual, it ended with him bewildered and frustrated and me leaving angry and in tears. I finally realized that I wasn’t going to lose him to another woman. I was going to lose him because I’m nuts.

I dreamt about it all that night and felt sick to my stomach when I woke up the next morning. I could finally see how this was destroying our friendship if it hadn’t already. He’s one of my best friends, I thought and I can’t stop getting angry at him for things he’s never done. I was at my wits end, so I picked up the phone and called the only person I know who’s more jealous that me.

“Hello?”

“Hi Mom.”

“Have you paid your phone bill this month?”

“Yes, I’ve paid the phone bill. Mom I need some advice.”

“Hmmph. Well if you ain’t paid your dang phone bill you know they’ll shut that thing off.”

“Mom! I’ve paid the bill, okay? I called because I need your help with something.”

“Well, what do you want?”

“I need to know how to get over being so jealous.”

“Well, you’re asking the wrong person. I’m 56 years old, and I still don’t know.”

“I just don’t know who else to talk to. I have a serious problem.”

“Oh, I know you do. You’re just like me.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“All the women in our family are this way. My mother was. Her mother was. And even when you were a little kid, you were jealous of all the other babies.”

“I know, I know. I’m past that part of the story. I just need to know how to get over this. It’s coming between James and my friendship.”

“Well that’s just because men and women can’t be friends Shanna. I’ve told you that a hundred times.”

“Errroh. We are friends okay? I love him as a friend, but I can’t stop getting jealous over him. I got angry the other day because a girl at the deli counter offered him a sample.”

“What’d she look like?”

“She had a big nose and a bad dye job.”

Snickering “I think you might be worse than me.”

“Oh god no.”

“You know, it’s been 20 years, but I still think about when I had to host that bingo night when you kids were going to St. Mary’s school, and your father was flirting with that stinking Jeannie Swanson. Oh, I was so mad! To this day if I’d a had a gun I’d have shot them both dead.”

“Oh my god mom. That’s horrible! You’re definitely worse than me.”

“I’m getting mad just thinking about it!”

“Don’t think about it.”

“And I’m not as jealous as I used to be.”

“I feel a little less crazy now, so thanks for that, but it still doesn’t solve my problem. How do I at least become a little less jealous then?”

“Well, part of it is that I just don’t care anymore. It wasn’t like I was ever really in love with your father anyway. Now at my age there’s not much to be jealous about. You’ll mellow out when you hit 50.”

“50! 50! Mom, that’s another 20 years. I can’t go like this for two more decades before it gets better.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. It’ll probably get worse before then too.”

“It can’t get worse.”

“Ever wanted to shoot someone?”

“No Mom!”

“Well then it can get worse.”

So I’ve taken the first step. I’ve admitted that I have a problem and I need help. I’ve got 11 more to go and they’re not going to be easy. I’ve considered counseling, but I have this unsettling fear that the therapist would tell me “Don’t worry, I have patients who are much worse than you,” and it would just make me jealous. Especially if he was hot.

The Phantom Baby

Sat, 03 Nov 2012 21:57:00 -0400

It’s only appropriate that I went to the store because I was having a craving. I didn’t need to go grocery shopping for another week, but I was craving borsch. I’m not very picky when it comes to food, but when I do get a hankering for something, I have to satisfy my urge or it won’t go away. And this time, I was craving beets soup. Once I arrived at the store, I decided to go all out and make it an impoverished Eastern European night as I love theme dinners. I had potato dumplings at home, so I added some apple sauce to the cart. My mouth watered as I thought about enjoying my poor Soviet food and how my pasty, bountiful curves would be more accepted if I was named Olga and didn’t live in L.A.

As I passed the aisle of cold beer and wine I thought what could be better than a bottle of cheap white wine to go with my meal. I scoured the shelves for a while before finding a $3 that seemed acceptable.

I dragged my purchases to the front and looked for the shortest line to accommodate me.

I always get carded. Whether I’m going into a seedy bar or buying beer at a 7-11, the clerks look at my chubby baby face and ask for ID. The cheaper the alcohol, the more suspicious they are. Anticipating the reaction to my $3 bottle of wine, I had my ID ready and offered it to the young, pudgy clerk as soon as he began scanning my groceries.

“I don’t need that,” he laughed, but checked it anyway.

“Oh, okay,” I smiled. I must be looking mature tonight. Probably because I wore eyeliner. “Usually when I buy my cheap alcohol, I get carded.” I needlessly explained.

“Trust me, nobody’s confusing you for 21.” He replied amusing only himself. I recoiled and just pulled a tight smile. “Besides,” he continued “You shouldn’t be drinking in your condition.”

“My condition?” I asked hesitantly as I swiped my debit card. How did he know I was depressed? Was I that obvious?

“Yeah, how far along are you anyway?”

Did he mean what stage of grief was I in? I considered telling him ‘Well, I’ve already passed denial and bargaining, so I guess I’m up to depression and bordering on anger,’ but I thought that might be too much information. “Far along in what?” I cocked my head to the side as I watched him carelessly throw my groceries in a bag.

He looked at my stomach area, which was shrouded in one of my favorite shirts: an off-white empire-waisted bell sleeved top that I secretly think looks like something Princess Leia would have paired with jeans.

“The baby,” he shoved a fat index finger toward the loose fabric around my waist. “How many months along are you with the baby?”

“I. Am. Not. Pregnant.” I said icily.

“Really?” His eyes widened in surprise. “Are you sure? You look pregnant.”

“No! I mean, yes, I’m sure!” I became flustered. “I’m not pregnant. And I don’t look pregnant!”

I snatched the bag of heavy foods off the counter. “And furthermore,” I tried to think of something harsh but witty that would put him in his place. “That’s not something you should ask a woman. Ever!” A woman passing the end of the counter turned to look at me. “Because,” My voice swelled with indignant rage as he just nervously laughed, “Because it’s rude! And you obviously can’t tell whether someone is or isn’t.”

He just shrugged in response. “Well, you look pregnant.”

I stormed out to my car and just sat there with the engine off trying to decide what to do next. Wait until he comes out on a cart run and then hit him with my car? That might kill him though, and I only want to inflict some non-fatal injuries. Plus, I don’t think my insurance would cover it. Maybe I could just charge him with a shopping cart. But I knew this was a ridiculous fantasy. Clerks don’t do the cart runs.

I looked in my rearview mirror and pinched my cheeks to see if they’d inflated in the last hour. Normal. I grabbed at my thighs, but I knew they weren’t the real problem. I looked down at the offensive mid-section and began slapping my stomach and started to cry. “Fat, fat, fat, fucky, fat, fat fuck, fat, fucking fat, fat, fat ass, fat, fuck.”

I would have been bothered, but I wouldn’t have taken it this hard if someone hadn’t accused me of being pregnant several months before. True it had been a homeless man, who was wearing a garbage bag as a dress and had walked up to me unprovoked and yelled “Well I’m pregnant too, but I don’t go around telling everyone!” but at the time I had convinced myself it was because I did indeed look pregnant.

My then-boyfriend, after watching me look at myself from every possible angle in the mirror and listening to me ask “Are you sure I don’t look pregnant? Like maybe 3 months along?” about 300 times, had pulled away when I went to kiss him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’ve just said you look pregnant so many times that when I look at you, all I can think is, ‘maybe she does look pregnant,’ and it’s freaking me out.”

For the next two months when I looked in the mirror, instead of thinking ‘Does this make me look fat?’ I would think ‘Does this make me look pregnant?’ I vowed never to forgive the boyfriend or the bag-clad homeless man for their comments. Now I had one more to add to the list of eternal damnation in my mind.

I began to apologetically stroke my now sore belly and consider my three options:
Get drunk.
Eat all of the potato cakes to make myself look as pregnant as possible.
Do 500 sit-ups.
As I drove home, I decided that I would do all three options, and as I considered which order would be the most efficient, my cell phone rang. Since it was my brother’s name flashing on the screen, I flipped it open and pressed it to my tear streaked cheek.

“Hey,” I mumbled.

“What’s wrong?” He has a way of instantly knowing whenever I’m upset. Maybe it’s because I’m usually still crying. So I told him the story, and when I finished he just sighed deeply. “Shanna, don’t get drunk, don’t overeat and don’t try to do 500 sit-ups.”

“No?”

“No, which store is it?”

“Why?”

“I have better insurance. I’ll come hit him for you.”

It’s been that kind of week…

Fri, 02 Nov 2012 21:36:00 -0400

It’s been that kind of week…

A friend is someone who won’t judge you when you go from...

Fri, 02 Nov 2012 17:01:00 -0400

A friend is someone who won’t judge you when you go from mocking Taylor Swift’s “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” for a month straight to singing it incessantly after a breakup. A best friend is someone who won’t remind you that it was never actually an option you were presented with…

A Ron Swanson Haiku Ode to Duke SilverJazz legend breakfast...

Fri, 02 Nov 2012 13:14:42 -0400

A Ron Swanson Haiku

Ode to Duke Silver
Jazz legend breakfast lover
Your mustache is grand

I Dreamed of Being a Plus-Sized J.C. Penney Catalog Model

Thu, 01 Nov 2012 00:00:00 -0400

I Dreamed of Being a Plus-Sized J.C. Penney Catalog Model:

From The Hairpin

Conversations with My Mom: Porn

Mon, 29 Oct 2012 00:32:35 -0400

My parents, especially my mother, have always referred to the internet as evil. My mom is convinced that it’s just full of porn, child molesters and other filth and while she’s not entirely wrong, all of my past attempts to convince her that my internet experience did not involve those things has only ended in a lecture about their collective evils. To my absolute shock, when I visited them for Christmas last year, I found a shiny black Dell desktop hooked up to a modem! Their stance had suddenly changed as everyone they knew had been asking for their emails and telling them to “just Google it”, which had bewildered my mom. Somehow, my Dad had convinced her that it was time to do the unthinkable and get internet access.

Since having it installed, each of my parents has taken turns temporarily boycotting their own use of the computer for a variety of reasons that all somehow have boiled down to fear that the other one will think they’re looking for porn. Frankly it’s a wonder the below conversation has taken this long to happen.

“Well, your father and I saw internet porn yesterday.” And with that sentence, my Mom has made me give up my will to live.

“Oh! Mom! No!”

“Oh, Shanna, just listen for a minute. We went to Papa Murphy’s for pizza, you know now that Rocky’s closed down it’s the only decent pizza around here. I’m not crazy about it, but it’s okay I guess, and well, anyway, when we got our pizza, there was this coupon that said if we filled out a survey on the internet, we could get 25% off our next order, so we went to the website and it was porn Shanna! Filthy, dirty porn!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure! I mean we didn’t actually see any of it! We didn’t look at it, but that’s what came up when we put that web page in. Porn! I’m about ready to call Papa Murphy’s and tell them, do you know your survey is porn!?”

“That doesn’t even make sense Mom, what’s the website, I’m going to try it.”

“You’re just going to get porn!”

“I’ll take my chances, what is it?”

“www then the dot, and I put in the www and the dot, just like it says, then p-a-p-a-s-u-r-v-e-y then another dot then com.”

“It’s just the one s then, are you sure?”

“Yes! I am sure! Your father typed it and I thought he was doing it on purpose, so I typed it and sure enough it’s porn!”

“Mom, I just typed it in and it goes to the Papa Murphy’s survey page. Are you sure you’re putting in the right address?”

“What?!? What?!? How are you getting that? Why is it coming up porn when I typed it in?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s somehow reverting to an old site.”

“But, we don’t look at porn! I have never! Never! Ever looked at porn Shanna!”

“Oh my gosh, Mom. I believe you. I don’t know why your internet is doing this.”

“Well, you would not believe the stuff that comes up. Fat women porn, Asian porn, gay porn, midget porn, midget porn Shanna! They’ve got everything you could think of.”

“I’m sure I could not think of these things Mom.”

“Do you wanna hear more?”

“No. Do you want me to just take this survey for you?”

“This kind even has the f word in it! And I’m not even going to repeat what this porn is called. Oh, and kiddy porn, oh my gosh, they’ve got kiddy porn. And animals! Shanna, they’ve got pages on people with animals! Horrible. Oh my gosh! I’ve never heard of such filth!”

“Please don’t read anymore Mom! Just close the page. I don’t know why that’s coming up.”

“AaaaaaaaaahhhoooohnoIjustclickedooooohaaaaooooaaaahhhhnononoohnono! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH NO NO NO NO NO! AAaAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!! AAAAHHHH! SHAAAAANNNNNA!!!!” It’s the kind of sound that you make when you’re in so much pain you can’t even make out the words to call for help. I’m in a panic.

“Mom! Mom! What happened? Are you okay? Can you hear me? Mom!!!?”

“Mom! Mom! Are you okay! What’s happened! Mom, please tell me you’re okay!” The sounds just escalate and bleed together with the muffled words into a feral cry of pain and somehow I just know that my mother has cut her finger off. All I can think is that she must have been peeling apples in front of the computer, her hand has slipped and she has cut off a finger.

I’m trying to decide how to keep her on the line and call 911 when I hear her whimper.

“I just clicked on it! Oh, no! Shanna! I clicked on one.”

“What? What did you click on?”

“One of them porn sites! And it was right there! It was all right there! Oh, I don’t know what to do.” She sounds like she’s about to hyperventilate and she’s on the verge of crying.

“Close it before you get a million pop ups!”

“Oh no! Oh no! I can’t believe it! It was the filthiest thing I’ve ever seen! Oh no! I can’t get it out of my head! I’m gonna be sick! I’m gonna throw up! It’s seared on my brain! It’s seared into my eyeballs! What am I going to do? Should I tell your father? I can’t tell him!”

“Oh just tell him Mom, it’s not big deal. It was an accident. He won’t care. Better to tell him than have him see all of the pop ups and not know why.”

“He’s not going to believe me! He’ll think I did it on purpose, but it was an accident?”

In the background I hear my dad gruffly ask “What was an accident?”

“Daddy, I clicked on one by accident! I didn’t mean to, but this dang thing is so sensitive that I clicked on it!” I can’t hear what he says back to her, but she screeches at him “It was not on purpose! I was not trying to see nothin! It was horrible!” Then she whispers “He doesn’t believe me, he thinks I wanted to look.”

“He’s just giving you a hard time because he likes to upset you Mom. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, this is so awful! I just feel sick! I’m gonna throw up! I’m gonna jump off a bridge! I’m sick!”

“Stop it! You’re going to be fine. Maybe go take a shower so you feel better.’

“But the filth is in my miiiind!” I can’t wash it away. Oh, what do I do? I’VE SEEN PORN!”

“We need to clear your internet history and cookies, okay?”

“What, what are cookies? Is this going to erase everything? Is this going to make me reset my passwords?”

“No, it’s very simple.” I walk my Mom through what is suddenly the very complicated process of erasing her history of porn visits on her computer and with every step she just responds with a little whine and says “I can still see it.” I have to walk her through the whole thing twice as she swears that it’s not erasing, and when we’re finally done she complains that the computer is now “barely running.”

“Now it’s slow. It’s never been like this before Shanna. It’s slow because of the porn. What have I done? What have I done? All over this stupid coupon.”

“It’s going to be fine.”

“No, it’s not. I can still see it. Do you want to know what it was? Do you want to know?” I ponder this for a second. On one hand, I kind of do want to know as I have a feeling that anything she clicked on must have been a main page, which I can only guess is the tamest part of the site, and then on the other hand, there are some things I don’t think I could stomach coming out of my mother’s mouth.

“No,” I decide. “No, I don’t want to know.”

“Well, I had to know! I’d tell you, but I don’t think I can repeat it.”

“Works for me.”

“Well, I’m going to let you go.”

“Are you okay? Really Mom, everything is going to be fine.”

“No, I am not okay! I’m gonna go puke.”

“Okay, go and puke.”

“I am! Sick to my stomach. People are sick!”

“Alright, I love you. Bye.”

“I love you too. Now let me go puke.”

While in the middle of writing this, my computer suddenly started locking up and I was unable to type anything. The cursor went crazy and started selecting full paragraphs and deleting them. My Mom would say it serves me right for making fun of her and then she would ask if I’ve been looking at porn.

The Retracted Drink

Sat, 27 Oct 2012 00:22:00 -0400

“Hey, can I sit with you guys?” I look up. He’s in his late 40’s, balding and alone in a karaoke bar. I look at Shiester who shakes her head vehemently. I don’t have the heart to say no.

“Sure.”

“Oh great!” He says and sits right down. “I’m Daniel by the way.” Shiester rolls her eyes at me but is instantly distracted when two younger guys with full heads of hair walk up to her.

I make small talk with him for a few minutes until he gets this big smile on his face and interrupts me. “Hey, thanks so much for letting me sit with you. I was beginning to get lonely over there. Its depressing to be drinking in a bar by yourself.” Tell me about it.

“Well, we’re pretty fun, so I think well be fine,” I say trying to lighten the mood.

“I don’t know, you seem pretty full of yourself. I’ll have to see about it.” He leans in and breathes too closely on me and I pull back in disgust.

“No, I’m not being conceited,” I reply. “We’re fun and I know Ill have a good time no matter what.”

“Well, Ill be the judge of how much fun you are.” As he says this, he leans even closer and attempts to put his arm around me. I’m starting to get mad. I’d taken pity on this guy, actually felt sorry for him for being over 40 in a bar alone. I was being nice, I could have told him to take his beer and get lost, but I let him sit with us and even asked him the requisite bar questions, Where are you from? What do you do? What do you really want to do? Right now, I want to punch him in his bulbous nose. I look over at Shiester for help, but shes engaged in a conversation with one of the guys who is handsome, 28 and seemingly normal. I cant interrupt that.

Suddenly Daniel hops up, “Be right back, gotta go take a whiz.” I watch him walk over and hand his card to the waitress. Oh, thank God, maybe he’s closing his tab and going to leave.

Then the waitress approaches me and asks if I want another beer. I shake my head no, so I’m surprised when she returns with a round for both of us.

“Oh, I didn’t want another beer,” I tell her.

“Yeah, I know hun, but the guy next to you said to get you one on his tab. You want me to take it back?”

I consider this for a minute. It just seems like a bad idea to take a beer from this guy, but its a $3 beer. Surely he cant be expecting anything for a $3 beer, I mean this isn’t Washington. Maybe this is his way of apologizing for before. What the hell its just a beer, “No, Ill take it, I say and watch her raise her eyes. Seriously, its fine.”

“Okay, but just so you know, he seems a little weird. If he gets out of line, just let me know.”

“Oh, okay then, can I just get my tab?” Great, now what? I look over at Shiester and try to make eye contact but she’s laughing at something the guy said.

Daniel comes back from the bathroom and smiles at me. “Uh, thanks for the beer,” I say reluctantly.

“Oh, happy to order it,” he beams.

“Yeah, okay.” I’m so grateful when the waitress quickly comes back with my tab that I immediately begin to sign it with a large tip, but Daniel pulls it out of my hand.

“I don’t think this is all of your drinks,” he frowns. “I think she put your drinks on my tab.”

“No, it’s right, see its $12, I just had two beers and Shiester had one Vodka.”

“No you had three beers and they’re like $3 beers anyway, she put your beers on my tab.”

“Oh, Ill go talk to her, but I thought that the last one was on your tab.”

“What? No, no it wasn’t,” now he looks agitated. “I ordered you the beer, I didn’t buy it for you.”

“My mistake,” I say through gritted teeth and walk over to the waitress.

“Something wrong?” she asks already annoyed before I can speak.

“Oh, its just that, I don’t think all of my drinks are on here.” I hand her the tab and she quickly scans it over.

“No, this is right, two bud lights and one vodka tonic. The beers are $3 apiece and the vodka is $6. Yep, its right.”

“Um, I guess that I had three beers then, so if you could just put that last one on my tab instead of his.”

“What, he said he was buying that beer. He said to put it on his tab.” She’s starting to raise her voice and I’m embarrassed.

“Yeah, but you know what its fine, I guess he was just confused. Ill just buy the beer. Please just put it on my tab and take it off of his, okay.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, this helps me out a lot,” she hasn’t lowered her voice at all and some of the guys at the edge of the bar are starting to listen. “Yeah, his card has already been declined three times so maybe if we take your beer off it will go through, huh.”

Oh God. What if they expect me to pick up his tab now? “Just so you know, I’m not with him and I don’t know him. He just came and sat by us.”

“Oh, I know, don’t worry about it, but could you just tell my manager about the drink so he doesn’t think I screwed up and get me into trouble?”

I really don’t want to relay this story to her manager, but I don’t want her to get yelled at, so when he comes over I carefully explain. “So I guess Ill just buy the beer then.”

“What, why doesn’t he want to buy your drink anymore?” He booms. I’m pretty sure Daniel can hear us by now.

“I don’t know, I hiss back. It doesn’t matter. Its fine, I want to buy it, okay?”

“It just doesn’t make any sense though. Why did he tell her he wanted to buy your drink but now he doesn’t?”

“Maybe he was confused. I don’t know. I don’t know him.”

“Did you make him mad or something?” He looks genuinely concerned. “Mandy,” he says pointing to the waitress, “she said he told her he wanted to buy you that beer, so why doesn’t he now.”

“I guess I made him mad, but that’s okay because I’m leaving now as soon as I pay my tab.”

“You seem like a sweetie, I just don’t understand. The man said he was going to buy you a beer. He should stick to that.”

“His card just got declined again,” Mandy says behind me before I can think of a good story to pacify her manager.

“Let me try it then,” he says and staggers over to the register.

I go sit back down and smile sickly. “Yeah, she had a beer on your tab, but its all taken care of now. Sorry about that.” I don’t like this guy, but I don’t wish this humiliation on him.

“Oh, good. Hey no offense. I would have totally bought you a drink, I just didn’t know that you’re the kind of girl who expected it.”

Strike that. I hope that they announce on the stage that his card was declined. I hope he literally dies of humiliation and just conks down on the table in front of me and chokes to death on it. I’m opening my mouth to tell him that I didn’t think he was the kind of guy who couldn’t pay a $20 tab when the manager comes over and asks to speak with him in private.

“Sure thing,” he says and winks at me as he gets up, “Ill be right back.”

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. “Okay!” I turn back to Shiester. “Hey, we gotta go.”

“Huh, why?”

“HiscardgotdeclinedandhecantevenpayhisowntabIdontwanttopayitImsoannoyedImgonnahithimwevegottogonow.”

“Oh, well this is Christian and Marvin,” she says with a smile. Oh great. She wants to talk to them.

“Hi,” I manage. Marvin takes the seat next to me.

“So your friend and my friend are hitting it of pretty well huh?” he says. I look closely at both of them. Christian is cute. Marvin is not. I just nod back and try to smile. “So what do you say we got somewhere after this? We’ve got some drinks back at our place.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Yeah, no. We’re going home. Alone. We have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday.”

“Yeah, gotta got to church. I like the early service. The sooner I can get to God the better you know.”

Right then, Daniel comes back looking very annoyed. “What’s going on? Who are you?” He points to Marvin.

“Hey I’m…” Marvin puts out his hand to introduce himself but Daniel just turns away and glares at me.

“I don’t know what happened, he says. We were having such a nice time and now you’re talking to someone else.”

“That’s how bars work.” I say flatly.

“Well, I suppose Ill still give you my email. Here,” He thrusts out his hand at me. Hes written it on a napkin and made two copies. One for Shiester and one for me.

“Thanks,” I say and shove them into my purse.

“Well?” He taps his foot.

“Well what?”

“Don’t you want to give me yours?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Really?”

“No, don’t have email.”

“How are you going to email me then?”

“I don’t know. Its going to be tough.”

With that, he turns and leaves and Marvin turns back to me.

“You really going to church tomorrow?”

“Nope, but I’m really not going home with you either.”

"If you take a picture in your sexy steampunk angel Halloween costume, but your ex-boyfriend..."

Fri, 26 Oct 2012 22:11:21 -0400

“If you take a picture in your sexy steampunk angel Halloween costume, but your ex-boyfriend doesn’t see it, did it really happen?”

If you’re listening to Auld Lang Syne on Grooveshark in...

Wed, 24 Oct 2012 14:45:54 -0400

If you’re listening to Auld Lang Syne on Grooveshark in October, there might be something seriously wrong with you.

Robyn’s “Call Your Girlfriend” is decidedly...

Sun, 21 Oct 2012 21:12:27 -0400

Robyn’s “Call Your Girlfriend” is decidedly less awesome when you realize that you are, in fact, the girlfriend.

The Accidental Date

Wed, 17 Oct 2012 00:00:00 -0400

I’m walking into the grocery store and I notice this guy walking out who’s just starring at me. Just starring and smiling. Now, strange men starring and smiling at me is nothing new, but I’m so hungover tired that I look completely stoned. “Shit,” I think as he comes walking toward me, “I’ll bet he thinks I know where to get some good weed.” I’m just opening my mouth to tell him that I’m only high on life when he opens his arms for a hug.

“How the hell have you been? I haven’t seen you for like a year!”

Oh fuck. I’ve gone out with this guy before. I’ve been on at least three dates with him and I didn’t recognize him. His name is … My brain completely goes blank. What’s his name. I know it, why cant I remember? Oh shit of fuck oh shit of fuck, what is his name?

“David,” I finally muster, “Hi. You look great!” In my defense, he has lost a lot of weight and grown a beard since I last saw him and this very well may be the first time Ive seem him in the daylight and sober. We chat for a few minutes and then he asks, “Hey you want to grab a drink later?”

“Tonight?”

“Yeah, tonight. Oh, did you have plans?”

I’m not cool enough to have plans on a Tuesday night and if my fuzzy memory serves me well, David’s a fun guy, so why not? I can’t even remember why we stopped hanging out. “Okay, lets meet up later.”

“Cool, cool. I’ve got to go make dinner so I’ll pick you up in three hours, go get pretty kid.”

I go home, make dinner, take a shower and read for a while. By the time he calls to say he’s running just a few minutes late and will be right there, I’m ready to get out of the house. When he shows up 30 minutes later, I’m annoyed.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says when I get into the car. “I had to shave and get ready and that takes a while.”

I look closely at David’s face. Shave? He doesn’t look any different, his beard just looks a little thinner and patchier in spots, but he couldn’t have spent that much time on it. Those steaks must have taken a while. In fact, the only evidence that he’s cleaned up is that he changed out of his jeans into some sort of tan colored denim shorts.

He catches me looking at them and smiles. I’ve had these since high school! Pretty cool that they still fit huh?”

“Yeah, pretty cool,” I manage. “Okay, where are we drinking.”

“Oh, we can go to the Foxfire, but do they have food? I”m kinda hungry.” How the hell did he lose all this weight eating two dinners a night?

“All they have is popcorn. Are you really still hungry after that steak?”

David just looks down sheepishly. “Well, I didn’t actually get a chance to eat, I mean, I spent a while getting ready.”

“Three hours! You spent three hours getting ready! Are you serious? “Immediately after I say it, I feel bad, its just that I’m a 20-something female, and I think 30 minutes is a long time to get ready. If I spent three hours, I would hopefully look like a different person, and I certainly wouldn’t be wearing tan denim.

“Hey, the beard takes a while. Where can we get food and drinks then?”

“How about Jerry’s?”

“No, that place is too expensive. How about Taco Bell, is there a Taco Bell around here?”

So I direct him to the closest Taco Bell. As we pull in, David looks pissed. “There’s no seating. It’s not a sit down Taco Bell. I can’t eat here.”

“Can’t you just eat in your car?”

“And get it dirty!? No.”

“Can you eat outside on that bench?”

“No, I want to eat inside. What else is around here?”

We keep driving down the street and I suggest a Thai place. “Too Asian,” he tells me. I suggest another place. “Too far.” And another. He doesn’t like the name of it. “Sounds fancy.” I really don’t remember him being this strange.

“How about there?” He asks as we pass the worst diner in North Hollywood, and that’s saying a lot.

I warn him that they probably didn’t even get a B from the health department, but David’s insistent. When we walk in, he just stands by the doorway for a while wrinkling up his nose. “Smells like shit in here,” he says loudly and turns around and walks out. I’m left standing there staring at the 65 year-old waitress. We go to four more places before he finally settles for Dairy Queen. The guy is trying to lock up when we walk in and he’s less than thrilled. David orders a hot dog and fries. No drink

“You want anything kid?” I decide to pacify myself with a $.99 ice cream cone, but when I hand him a dollar, he brushes me off. “No, I got this one, just buy me a drink later, okay.”

Is he serious? There is no where in Los Angeles County where I will be buying him a drink for less than $10. When we get to the bar, Davids good on his word. He orders a Jack and coke and just looks at me. “Hey,” he laughs. “I bought you ice cream. Pony up.” So I pay, but when I lay down the tip, he picks it up and puts in back in my purse. “You don’t have to tip. Its just a bar.” Is he serious?

“Yes, you do. You especially have to tip in bars. Don’t you tip?”

“Not unless its a hot girl.”

All I can think is, “I went out with this guy. Willingly.” I can’t believe myself. Suddenly I feel like I have to reevaluate my life. This is the kind of men I’ve been dating? “Whatever it doesn’t matter,” I tell myself. This is not a date. Now, were just old friends getting together for a drink.

Then David speaks, “This is cool. I haven’t been on a date for a while.”

“David, this isn’t a date.”

“Yes, it is, you’re single now and I’m single. That makes it a date. Hey, do you have any nail clippers.” He’s chewing on his index fingernail.

“No, we’re in a bar. You want to clip your nails right now?”

“Yeah,” he just keeps chewing. “They’re really bugging me, don’t you have some? I though all girls carried them around.”

“No. I don’t carry nail clippers. I clip my nails at home, not at the bar.”

My face must show my horror because he finally stops and looks up from his hand. “Oh, sorry, sometimes my social skills are a little off.” Now, as someone with less than adequate social graces, I have to understand. “Plus, I’ve never been quite the same since my girlfriend broke up with me.”

I’m beginning to feel a twinge of inspiration. “David, are you on Facebook?” I ask.

“No, why?”

“You don’t even have an account? Don’t get on there at all? Don’t even do any reading of other peoples profiles?”

“No, I, well, look the thing is, I cant get on there because of her.”

“Who?”

“My ex,” he rolls his eyes. “Weren’t you listening to me?”

“Yeah, yeah, the girlfriend, but”

“EX, ex-girlfriend. That fucking whore!” he practically screams.

“David, not so loud.” I look around to see if anyone else heard. The woman at the table next to us glances over.

“Well, when she left me she became a whore! Now I cant even get on there or I’ll just obsess about her. Fucking bitch.”

“Oh, well maybe its a good thing then, sometimes breakups can be tough, so maybe you shouldn’t get on there …”

“You know what she did,” he has this crazy smile on his face now, “She left me for another guy and then she told me not to talk to her for six months so I could have time to get over her! Can you believe that?”

“Wow, I’m really sorry David, that sucks, I kinda know how you feel I mean I actually just got out of a relationship and …”

“No you don’t! You don’t know how I feel at all! I was with her for five years! Five fucking years! Do you know how many chicks I didn’t bang because of her?” The woman has now turned her full attention toward us and is nodding to her friend.

“You want to go outside? Maybe get some air?” Suddenly, he doesn’t even look angry anymore, he just looks like he’s about to cry. I can’t hold this against him, I’ve been a mess lately too. So, I just take his hand. “I’m sorry man, I know its hard.”

David just puts his head down in his hands. “I just don’t know if I’m ever going to get over her, you know?” He looks up at me and I just nod with understanding.

“How long ago did you guys break up,” I ask softly.

“Five years.”

“Wait, you were together for five years or you broke up five years ago?”

“Both.”

“Oh.” Five years ago? Is this how I’m going to end up? I don’t even know what to say at this point. “David, maybe we should you know, get going.”

‘Oh, alright kid.” We go get in his car and just sit in silence for a few minutes. He goes to turn the engine on and then looks over at me and puts his hand on my thigh. “Hey, thanks for being there for me tonight and just listening. I really needed that.” I try to smile with understanding, but hes really gripping my leg and the look on his face is a little disturbing. “So, you wanna go back to my place and make out?” he asks. I pull back as he leans in and says ”Hey, babe I don’t need anymore rejection tonight.”

“That sounds like fun, but you know, I gotta get up early for work.” He’s still smiling. “And I wasn’t quite prepared for it, I mean, I didn’t know it was a date.” He’s still smiling and getting closer. I have to do something drastic.Okay, here goes.: ”I haven’t shaved my legs in two weeks I’m wearing the biggest pair of granny panties I own and I’ve safety pinned my bra to my shirt. So, maybe another time.”

He looks taken back, pulls his hand away and starts the car. We start driving back toward my house in silence. I guess that worked. I feel bad but I cant make out with him out of pity. I mean, this isn’t college anymore. I figure I’m finally in the clear, but when we hit a red light, David turns to me. “Wait, how hairy are we talking?”

“Fuck yeah,” is the appropriate response when Eddie...

Fri, 12 Oct 2012 00:33:00 -0400

“Fuck yeah,” is the appropriate response when Eddie Money sneaks his way into your hipster approved Pandora mix.

"I think people can be divided into two categories. Those who’ve enabled Bcc on Outlook and..."

Fri, 12 Oct 2012 00:30:28 -0400

“I think people can be divided into two categories. Those who’ve enabled Bcc on Outlook and those who have not. I want to live my life as the latter.”

This song should be required listening before dating me.

Sun, 23 Sep 2012 22:23:49 -0400

This song should be required listening before dating me.